


bedlam

by fightfortherightsofhouseelves



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hinny, Make up sex, Post DH, Smut, angsty hinny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-17 15:02:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18100862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightfortherightsofhouseelves/pseuds/fightfortherightsofhouseelves
Summary: Harry's got a war on his mind.





	bedlam

**Author's Note:**

> this just poured out of me in waves, a burden too tiresome to carry. be gentle :)

I can’t. I simply can’t, I can’t look at her now. I just…

She’s my whole life, Ginny. Her, Ron, Hermione - I cannot imagine my life without them. But somehow - somehow the mere thought of losing her drives me insane. It bleeds out like a wound, it rips at my seams and sends ripples of mind-numbing pain through my very core.

If there was even one moment when either Ron or I were looking the wrong way...I can’t even imagine, can’t bear it -

How could you?

How could _you_?

How

could

you?

There’s a voice inside my head screaming over and over and over: how could you? How could you? Howcouldyou?

I always told her that some walks you walk alone. And I need to be alone, just like four years ago in the Forbidden Forest, me, my bleeding thoughts and I. If I am alone, nobody else will die. If I am alone, I will never be someone’s cause of death. Never. It’s too hard a burden to carry, it’s torture and agony ramming iron hot blows at your insides until you scream and curse and cry your heart out.

It was Rookwood, so it’s personal for Ginny. But it’s personal to me too! It’s because of him that Fred is dead. It’s because of him that my best mate, my love, their entire family, myself, we’ve all lost the shimmer in our eyes, we’ve all gained that perpetual furrow in our brows, sadness reminding us of loss. And I get to witness it daily - between sighs and corners of their eyes wiped hurriedly so no one’d notice, between one silence and the next when there’s a dark cloud hovering above our heads, filled to the brim with thoughts and regrets for the ones we lost.

And I could have prevented all this. I could have, if I’d’ve found a way to defeat Voldemort earlier. If I would’ve returned earlier maybe, if -

If, if, if, if. My mind is a swirl of “ifs”, tormenting my nights and burdening my days. Handcuffed to routine, I drag the weight of the world with me twenty four hours and then throughout the next twenty four. And the next. And the next. It never stops, you see.

But for her, I need to be a shield, protect her from pain and sorrow and frowns alike. For her, I’d even die, do you understand? If one must die for the other to live, that’ll be me, me, ME. It has to be me. I love her to insanity and back, so much so that this love has soaked my skin straight to my bones, glued my limbs together when my mind tried tearing them apart. Our love has made me whole.

Still, how can I protect her when she rushes head first, stubbornly into the battle, when she appears at the heart of a duel, when I thought she was safe and sound in our bedroom as I asked - no, pleaded with her to. How can I -

How could you? How could you? HOW COULD YOU?

Breathe.

I -

I would - I cannot -

The silence in my mind is deafening, I need to think, to struggle, to process in order to remain sane.

It’s turmoil.

It’s life.

No, it’s the cross I have to bear.

She could have been murdered. She could have been killed. And I was right there, next to her, not more than a mugger, a fool, a merry andrew left staring blankly at a whirlwind of red hair dancing between jinxes and curses aimed to kill, a spectacle of lights that left me broken and weak.

But she’s alive, my thoughts scream. She’s alive, she’s alright, she’s unharmed.

Yes, but what if Rookwood returns, my conscience spits enraged. What if he returns, now that he knows she’s here? Indeed, what if?

What if, what if, what if.

What if I come home one day and she’s not here anymore? What if the last time I kissed her, held her was in a trifling moment, a fleeting glimpse, so small and insignificant it’s meant to be forgotten? What do you do as a last time when you don’t know it’s the last time? And how do you still carry on afterwards, how do hold yourself?

So what if -

But what if -

WHAT IF -

I can’t.

Knock-knock-knock, she knocks on the door to our bedroom and I want to retreat, hide, anything to avoid her. For now. And it’s childish and stupid, I realise, but I’ve lost so much and yet I never learned how to deal with this loss, this gaping hole inside of me burning with the memories of those I’ve loved so dearly. I’m still eleven and afraid.

Ginny asks me to open, asks me to listen. She’s weary as she steps over the threshold, lingers by the doorstep, teeth sunk into her bottom lip. She’s troubled, I notice as my eyes drift over the cuts and bruises on her skin. Rookwood’s never been known to spare the innocent, I am reminded violently.

“Harry?” Her arms curl jadedly around herself, as if to protect her from a gush of biting wind or worse. “Speak to me, Harry,” her voice trembles as she pleads. Oh, how could I ever deny her anything?

“I know you’re mad at me or…” She stops, searching for a better word or maybe gathering her courage to finally speak it. “Or disappointed, let down even,” Ginny cries then hushes.

Let down? By her? How could I? It’s myself I’m disappointed in for not protecting her, for being powerless, for letting my guard down, for having the audacity to think that it’s all finally over. But it never is, isn’t it? It’s simply never over. They’ll find a way to come again and again, haunting us, denying us the right to a simple life, a pleasant life, that late Sunday morning coffee in the backyard as you’re curled in a blanket with a good book and the taste of the one you love on your lips kind of life. A perpetual peace of mind kind of life.

“But he killed Fred. He murdered my brother, Harry, he murdered him in cold blood, do you hear this? Do you hear me, Harry? Am I getting through to you, you fool, you git, you kind-hearted fool?” She cries again and I can feel her heart breaking as she tries to hold the pain inside - inside, where it’s safe and it won’t make her crumble to the ground, shattered, screaming her throat hoarse because a part of her died along with her brother. As a part of each of us did.

“And knowing this, you dare ask I stay behind as you risk your life fighting? The nerve of you, Harry Potter,” she goes on to chide and ha! Look at me, the coward, unable to leave the dark corner I’ve nestled my grief by,  feeding it till it swallows me whole.

My eyes scrunched shut, I pick up the sound of her heels thump-thump-thumping on the floor, clipped steps on their way to shake me to life again. It’s what she’s always done, grabbed me by the collar and dragged me into the light again, every time I fell away. And even though time passes and we grow, even though the sore wound starts to close, it never really gets easier.

“Look at me”, she says but still I can’t, afraid she’d try to lift the weight of the world from my shoulders onto hers, and I can’t let her. “You are not alone”, she cries, her knuckles white as they clench and her hands grip and tear at the collar of my ragged shirt. “You are not alone in this fight -”

“But I am, I am. I have always been.”

“You are not, Harry. We will raise our fists -”

“No -”

“We will raise our wands against those who come after us, against the emptiness inside you.”

Silence.

“I am not empty,” I attempt, latching on to the glimmer of hope deep in her eyes. “My heart and soul are full of you.”

“Oh, my love,” she breathes and crashes her lips to mine with such force they blanche under the pressure.

My palms fly to her wrists, open then closing around them like cuffs. I need her to promise me first, swear to me that she’ll never do it again -

“Promise me that you’ll never do it again,” I whisper as her teeth cut into my bottom lip.

She stops to level her gaze to mine, “No.”

“Gin, please,” I prepare myself for a fight, still she cuts me off once more.

“No.”

Never have two letters shot so much fear and anguish and rage through me. White hot rage, iron nails jabbed into my temples, the taste of bile on my tongue. Images of her lying cold on the ground, her blood streaming down my hands. Dead because of me, dead because of her foolish stubbornness -

I can’t recall picking her up, nor laying her body down onto our bed, her long red hair pooled about her, contrasting like blood against the pristine white sheets. My breath catches as an unknown force coils round my throat, constricting my windpipe. I will not let this happen. I won’t.

I am rage, I am outburst, I am fury.

I am a living shield, born to protect, to keep her safe at any costs. As long as I’m alive, no one touches her. As long as I’m alive -

Oh, and how alive I feel as she kisses me, a fistful of my hair in her hand as the other scratches at my chest, ripping away buttons in her fight to rid me of my blood-stained shirt. Hastily she jerks the cloth down over my shoulders, balling it up to throw it as I do the same to hers. We’re both angry - at each other, at ourselves, at the whole world for all we know, and it’s too rough to be put into words. So we kiss and bite our pent up feelings out, a lovers’ quarrel made out of tangled sheets and ragged breaths.

My fingertips find her belt, the button, the zip of her torn trousers, and begin to push them down and further over her ankles, yanking them away with a swish of the wrist. I let my eyes travel once over her tired body, take in the bruises colliding with her freckles like comets do with constellations. With the bridge of my palms, I lift her lower back until my mouth is close enough to her skin, hot breath inciting goosebumps in its wake. With the brim of my nose I draw circles round her navel and lower, till she squirms and I let go.

The mattress bounces as she falls back onto it, and she scowls and blows away a stray lock from her incandescent gaze. There’s a storm inside that’s rapidly brewing and yet I do nothing to steady myself before she hits. On my knees, brow raised high, I dare her make the first move. I’m ready. And then she does, oh how she does, never one to back away, my Ginny.

Casting her bra off, she gets up, full height on display, combing her wild hair with dainty fingers before they travel over her belly and hook around the sides of her knickers. I forget to breathe when she slides them down an inch then right back up, chocolate eyes provoking me, mocking me. Patience was never my virtue and she knows it.

Her hand around her neck, sliding down easily to rest on the side of her breast, fingertips hiding away a nipple as the tip of her tongue slowly wets her lips. She wants to be taunting, maybe punishing me for my silence, but I don’t intent to stay quiet any longer.

The innocent touches turn to wicked squeezes, a small moan parting her lips, the ginger of her hair tickling her shoulders and -

“Don’t move,” my mouth, so treacherous and wilful, growls before I spring from the balls of my feet and dash towards her. I pepper her with blazing kisses, my hands covering hers, moving in even circles on her breasts as she sinks to her knees, and I with her.

Her teeth nibble at my ear as my palms squeeze tighter, nipples perked against their center. Freckled cheek pressed into mine, I hear the ghost of moans and whimpers she’s commanding herself not to let out. Oh, Ginny, we’ve played cat and dog enough, it’s time we let this dance unfold.  

“Lay on your back,” I tell her and she does, darkened eyes trying to read me. “Keep your eyes closed. Feel.”

Tasting her lips, kisses planted at their corners, on the upper one then switching to the bottom, I pause to let her tongue test and moisten the calloused skin of my index finger. Like magic, as farther down her body the finger’s wet trail descends, the harder her chest swells, more and more until it crashes into the fabric of her knickers, stopping at their center. Once or twice it thumbs and touches, and as she gasps it skims them aside to feel her, to explore. My finger moves slowly, slides inside, parting her while my lips cover her mouth sloppily and hard.

Her hands, strong enough to tear me apart, leave shivers behind their gentle touch, holding herself close to me, tugging at my hair then scratching at my chest. One finger still inside, she gasps and she twists, one calf flying up to rest itself against my side.

“More,” she says before she moans - her wish is my command. “Do it hard,” she pleads, nails biting the flesh of my shoulders. And I do, hard and fast until she screams, my mouth sucking at her breast, fingers plunging deep within. Release comes with a roll of her nub, tumbling through her in waves, leaving her shaking, breathing and myself blazing. I need her so much, I always do.

“Let me see what you’ve got,” she pants into my ear, moving my hand away to pull down the last damp piece of cloth separating myself from her. I understand what she means - the two of us, we’ve always understood each other perfectly. She’s telling me to let loose, to go wild, tear myself in two to gather all the pain and kick it out. I know, because she wants the same: to hold on to that last stand, last line between sanity and losing our minds. We need each other.

Effortlessly, I lift her up, cradled into my arms still catching her breath, still riding that one last wave of utter bliss and freedom. She’s like a feather when I gently place her on the sideboard, back leaned to rest itself against the cold texture of the wall.

“Still hard?” I barely roll the words down my tongue, heart racing wildly when she nods so briefly, pearly teeth back to biting at her bottom lip.

I fill my lungs with her flowery scent, allowing it to flood my brain and take control of my mind, as she adjusts herself to me. Ever mindful not to hurt her, I start off evenly, going in and out tenderly until -

“I said do your worst, Potter,” she grunts and then wickedly grins as my rhythm becomes pounding and her flesh smashes against mine. Smash, shiver, crash, gasp. Bang goes our anger, crack goes our pain. We bury our sorrow into each other, pound pound pound pushing hard into her, knees hitting the sideboard as it knocks itself against the wall. The harder I hammer, the harder she teases, laughing as she meets me thrust for thrust.

“Harder,” she chimes and my vision clouds. From the sideboard to the heavy table, I press my shoulders onto the back of her thighs, thrusting faster, harder till her fists punch into the wood, back arched as I slam and grunt and scream. Pain follows me as I climb up high, disintegrates when I jump, cleansed by the passions of the rise. Black is my mind and I let it rest, sit still and quiet spilled onto her chest.

Spent, she takes my hand and tugs me into bed. We’ve let the bedlam pour out of our hearts during this folly, leaving us broken and exposed and ready to be healed. In her arms I rest my soul enough to find the words to thank her, tell her how I love her, how she’s my end and my beginning. She smiles and cries and wipes away the sweat drenching my forehead, kisses tenderly at my scar, combs her fingers through my hair.

“It’s exhausting being strong, let yourself be human when it’s just the two us,” she says, pressing my temple to her chest, her beating heart deafening in its chant. _I’m alive, I’m alive,_ it sings and, next to her little _ahs_ and delirious cries, creates the most beautiful melody. Yes, we’re both alive.

And I love her, I adore her, she’s part of me, this woman. I’ll always take care of her, look after her, always worship her. I kiss her every bruise, caress and tend to every wound. Her knee, her tigh, the palm of her hand, the swelling on her freckled forehead. There’s no hurry now, no one now to rush our healing, not a soul to tell us of time’s passing. It’s only us, just the two of us inside those four brick walls, so fragile and human between our bedsheets.

With my hands I later stirred her body, our love, the minutes and hours before nightfall. We swayed left and right beneath the covers, feeling stronger when intertwined, holding the weight of all our love.

“Be patient when I fall away,” I whisper as I hold her close, heart against heart in tangled sheets and sweat soaked chests.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she proclaims, pressing her forehead to mine, brown eyes afire with tremendous will and determination.

“I will,” the words pour from my lips in a shaky chuckle, “Still as long as I’m with you, I’ll always be home.”

Ginny’s body collapses into mine as a hurricane courses through her shoulders, her spine, chest heaving hard with unshed tears. She takes hold of me, pinning my arms down, hips into the mattress, maneuvering me back inside that divine state of ecstasy and bliss. And I let her, as I always do. Oh, how could I ever deny her anything?

 


End file.
